


the gift

by norio



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8769490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norio/pseuds/norio
Summary: It's Akaashi's birthday. He's not expecting anything. Really, he's not.





	

Akaashi sits on the gym steps. Bokuto has a snack. It’s one of those healthy snacks—a fruit bar embedded with strawberry flavors and a medley of nuts, fortified with iron and organic to the core. Bokuto has pinned the volleyball between his legs, and his kneepads have been rolled down to his ankles. The rest of the team has scurried home in a stampede, leaving Akaashi alone beside him. The sun melts into the straight horizon and Akaashi thinks about homework and that new first-year boy in his classroom who has a charming smile and the goosebumps rising on his arms. 

“It’s cold,” Akaashi says finally. “It’d be better if you wore a jacket.” 

“Mmf,” Bokuto says, munching. “Want some?” He’s torn off half his healthy snack and holds the other half towards Akaashi. 

“No, thank you.” Akaashi hunches over his knees. He doesn’t want the half-eaten remains of his upperclassman’s snack, but he worries about offending him. Bokuto seemed temperamental during practice, but he has only known him for a week. 

“Mmf,” is Bokuto’s only response. He polishes off his snack bar. Akaashi rubs his arms through the thin material of his jacket.

* * *

  
“Hey, Akaashi!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the hall. Akaashi pretends not to hear him, studying the tournament bracket. Thin lines stretch towards the middle, scores penciled between parentheses. A few more until victory, but the simple print misleads towards the simplicity of the—

“Akaashi, come here!” Bokuto grabs Akaashi by the elbow and pulls him across the tiled floor. Akaashi hobbles a few irritable steps, dragged through the pulsating crowd with his heavy bag knocking against his back. They arrive at the apparently Holy Grail of destinations, one worthy of breaking Akaashi’s reverential reverie for the significant event. 

It’s a table selling overpriced T-shirts. 

“Look! The wisdom of the ace! Wisdom of the ace, and I’m the ace!” Bokuto jabs his finger towards the blue cotton shirt. 

“You have a good eye,” the vendor says. Akaashi would rather the vendor refrain from encouraging Bokuto, who was already sprouting a childish and whimsical smile. Bokuto spins Akaashi around, holding the shirt against Akaashi’s shoulders to check the size. Ahead, a cluster of serious-looking students study the tournament board with the pamphlets in hand. He can only imagine the studious conversation, analyzing the other teams’ weaknesses and strengths, and definitely not discussing about buying trivial souvenir T-shirts. 

“This is your size,” Bokuto proclaims. “I’ll buy this for you, Akaashi.” 

“That’s unnecessary, Bokuto-san,” he says, turning around again. 

“Why not? We’ll be matching!” Bokuto beams, nose wrinkling to make room for his wide smile. It’s surprising how Bokuto can answer his own questions so seamlessly. 

“It’s not really my style.”

“What do you mean, your style? You wear that weird shirt all the time!” Bokuto squints vaguely. “Where’d you even buy a setter dog shirt, anyway?”

For one thing, Bokuto had never been more wrong in his life. That setter dog shirt had style. It also perfectly encapsulated Akaashi’s role, and it was a very good-looking shirt. Furthermore, that shirt actually mentioned that Akaashi was a setter, which was far more congruous than a setter wearing an ace shirt. No, scratch that. A setter wearing a matching ace shirt. 

“So you really think our ace has wisdom,” Akaashi says instead. 

“Yeah! Don’t you, Akaashi?” 

“I think our ace could practice his serves,” Akaashi says. He ignores Bokuto’s squawking while he walks away. The bus would be leaving soon, and he needs to check that nobody (namely Bokuto) left anything behind on the balcony. He ultimately finds Bokuto’s towel, Bokuto’s crumpled-up homework, and Bokuto’s half-empty box of band-aids abandoned near the railing. On the bus, Bokuto shows off his new shirt, having bought a parade of similar ace shirts. Their teammates groan and avert their eyes, arms hanging over seats. Akaashi leans his head against the window and sleeps.

* * *

  
When Bokuto invited him out for the weekend, Akaashi expected the rest of the team to tag along. But after Bokuto arrives an unfashionable five minutes and thirty-five seconds late and Akaashi has adjusted the length of his sweatshirt three times, Bokuto chirps, “Let’s go!” and that’s that. Akaashi surprisingly relishes the challenge of herding Bokuto by himself as a nice distraction. He has discovered that the charming classmate with a nice smile actually had a long-term girlfriend from his accursed middle school. He mourns the melancholy of his youth, his first amorous relationship nipped in the bud before he even bothered to learn his name. 

They arrive at the sports store, where Bokuto immediately blitzes towards the volleyball aisle. Akaashi wistfully trails behind and thinks about charming smiles. 

“You said you wanted to work out because you were inspired by me, didn’t you?” Bokuto asks, pausing by the weight-lifting section. He heaves up a ten-pound dumbbell effortlessly. 

“I didn’t say the last part.” Akaashi had merely remarked that he could work on his physical physique, and Bokuto had sprinted across the gym to listen. Leaping up and down, Bokuto had added ‘to be more like me’ or ‘so little Akaashi is impressed by me.’ After Bokuto congratulated himself on being a great upperclassman to the impressionable youth, Akaashi had reminded him that this great upperclassman had tricked some first-years into buying him ice cream in a clearly weighted game. Bokuto, unsurprisingly, had become interested in continuing regular practice after that little talk. 

“It’s okay if you look up to me, Akaashi,” Bokuto says indulgently. “Here, I’ll get these for you.”

“I doubt I’ll use them,” Akaashi says. 

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Bokuto insists, but Akaashi has already begun to peruse the clipboards. He’s found a strange whiteboard-clipboard combo, where the lines of the volleyball court have been etched onto the front. When he looks up again, Bokuto has wandered down the aisle and rattles around a training volleyball. Akaashi decides to keep a closer eye on him, if only to save his pocket money from paying due reparations to the store. 

They idly play volleyball at the local park. Under the lamplight, Akaashi sets the ball. He aims low angles and high angles at imaginary targets and Bokuto spikes the ball over the imaginary net. When Bokuto finally has to spend a good minute to hunt for the ball in the night shrubbery, they walk home. Bokuto tells him, “Thanks for the day, Akaashi, it was really fun!” and Akaashi says something appropriate in return. Akaashi trundles home, hands deep in his sweatshirt pockets, and Bokuto waves good-bye. When Akaashi turns the corner, Bokuto still flaps his arms above his head.

* * *

  
The team—the entire team, and not just Akaashi—eat at a yakiniku restaurant. They celebrate the highly acclaimed event of someone receiving a yakiniku coupon. When Bokuto gets up to use the restroom, Komi leans across the table and whispers, “Okay, let’s eat,” like they hadn’t been sitting at the restaurant for a good fifteen minutes already. But Bokuto had been consuming the slabs of meat at a frankly astonishing pace, even by Akaashi’s standards. The pork, the liver, the loin slices, the short ribs, had all been scooped up by two wooden chopsticks. They still sizzled from the grill, but Bokuto has a mouth forged from a furnace. 

“It was a bad idea to come with Bokuto,” Konoha says, who had been stuck with fried rice and shrimp. “He doesn’t share food.”

“That’s not true,” Komi says, rushing to their captain’s honorable defense. “He’ll leave his watermelon rinds behind.” Konoha concedes to the caveat, and they quiet down to munch on however much meat they can scrounge in Bokuto’s absence. 

Akaashi stuffs his mouth full of meat, chewing down. It’s true, he thinks. During the summer training camp, he recalls Bokuto snatching up food away from that annoying Kuroo, which was fine. Bokuto loves his food, so he’ll rarely share. But he also remembers a mulling night on the stoops of the gym, a flood of sunset above the hill, and the snack bar extended to him. 

Oh, he thinks. 

Bokuto returns from the restroom with a slight wail of “How could you eat without me!” like the traitorous action is beyond his comprehension. Akaashi ignores him and continues to chew on the thick meat. Bokuto sits beside him and sometimes, when he talks, he scrapes the chair even closer to be heard over the buzzing restaurant. Akaashi can only catch fragments of “—chipmunk cheeks—” and “—if I had a trunk like an elephant—” through the crowd, but Bokuto sometimes smiles abruptly. He smiles so wide that he squeezes his eyes shut and grins with his teeth, so pleased and happy.

Akaashi didn’t know he had a type, but he supposes he does now. He drinks the cool water on the table.

* * *

  
Bokuto stands out from the crowd. He’s still wearing his kneepads, a sleek long line from his shorts to his calves. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, keychains dangling from his fingers. When he spots Akaashi, his face alights into a pleasurable smile and his eyes spark with interest. It’s nothing like the charming classmate, who probably sits somewhere and does something with his far less malleable face. Akaashi weaves his fingers together.

“Hey,” Bokuto says. “Have you ever played volleyball so much that you forget how to play?”

“What?” Akaashi snaps his head up, diagrams dancing in his eyes. But Bokuto only shrugs and laughs. 

“Anyway,” he says, too loud, “I got you these! They’re matching with me.” Twin pairs of Vabo-chans, the furry volleyball mascot with big eyes and huggable hands, and two pairs of swinging plastic volleyballs. Akaashi gingerly touches a Vabo-chan. His finger sinks into the furry stomach. It is all furry stomach.

“I don’t think they’re my style,” Akaashi says. 

“Everybody loves Vabo-chan,” Bokuto refutes. But he bends to clip them on his bag. 

“The volleyball one.”

“What?”

“The volleyball one,” Akaashi repeats. “I’ll take the volleyball one.” 

Bokuto doesn’t move. He still holds the metal zipper between his fingers, latch of Vabo-chan threaded through the small hole. Akaashi stares at the mountain of bags scattered in their claimed corner. They slump together with a casualness Akaashi feigns to imitate. 

“I knew you’d like them,” Bokuto says, warmth pouring into his voice. He beams and deposits the small plastic volleyball keychain into Akaashi’s open hand. Bokuto’s fingers brush against Akaashi’s palm. 

“I don’t know where you find that confidence,” Akaashi murmurs. He drops the keychain into his pocket, where it stays warm against his side. 

“Akaashi,” Bokuto says. “Your birthday’s soon.” 

“That’s true,” Akaashi says. He prefers a quiet birthday. A calm day capped off by a sensible dinner, something like that. But if Bokuto invites him out with the team, he doesn’t think he’ll refuse. 

“Is there anything you want?” Bokuto has a feverish glow in his eyes, inspired by the received gift. Akaashi opens his mouth haltingly. 

“Anything,” he says. “Anything is fine. I’ll—appreciate it.” Bokuto frowns, disappointed, but he finishes latching the Vabo-chans to his bag. They extend their arms out to the world. The line on Bokuto’s jacket is tight and without wrinkles. Broad shoulders, Akaashi thinks. A boy with strong shoulders, with a face of earnest sweetness. Akaashi rubs the small plastic volleyball in his pocket.

“Bokuto-san,” he says forcibly, returning to business. “About your forgetfulness…”

* * *

  
In the morning, he eats a casual breakfast. His father mentions something about picking up a cake on the way home and his mother says happy birthday, Keiji-kun. Akaashi slips his finger into the back of his sneakers, and walks to school. The December cold crawls into his thick coat and he grits his jaw against the clattering of his teeth. His classmates offer him cheerful birthday wishes. The clouds ease out above the trees, breathing comfortably. 

On Bokuto’s birthday, they had piled gifts on him before practice. The team seemed amused, delivering trinkets to watch his reaction. Bokuto would shout that it was wonderful and tear through the snarling plastic to use his gift. Giving Bokuto a present, Akaashi reflects, is like giving presents to a grateful child.

He practices in his head while his teacher lectures about history. This is a wonderful gift, Bokuto-san. This is truly a lovely gift, Bokuto-san. He will use this immediately. How thoughtful, Bokuto-san. He appreciates the consideration, Bokuto-san. Akaashi has latched the volleyball keychain to his backpack, an obvious cherry on his metaphorical birthday cake. 

“Happy birthday, Akaashi!” Bokuto shouts when Akaashi enters the club room. 

“Thank you,” Akaashi says, and waits. 

“You doing anything after school?”

“No.” 

“Maybe you should stop by the arcade, have a little fun.”

“That’s prohibited by the school,” Akaashi says. But he would go if Bokuto invited himself on this scandalous mission. He could duck behind the beeping machines, crammed against him with shoulders pressed together and elbows in his ribs. 

“Oh,” Bokuto says. Akaashi waits, and rubs his fingers together. 

“Yes,” he says softly. “Oh.” 

Komi gives him socks, Sarukui presents a book, Konoha has a magazine full of attractive people who stare out seductively from the glossy pages. Akaashi tucks his new stash into his backpack. He stays late at practice with Bokuto until Akaashi begins to check the clock on the gym wall. Bokuto says, “Let’s walk home together,” so they do. The night has descended in waves. The moon hangs over the electric towers and rolls along the network of wires. 

“Do you feel different?” Bokuto asks, looping the bag over his shoulder.

“No.” A little disappointed, perhaps. 

“I never feel different, either,” Bokuto says sadly. “But—happy birthday, Akaashi. I really mean it!”

“Do you think my classmates don’t mean it?” 

They walk past the empty parks, the LED lamp lights casting a daytime glare on the swing sets and sand pits. Akaashi’s hands have a ghastly appearance, but he still swings them by his side. Bokuto has tucked both hands into his pockets, elbows askew. 

“No,” Bokuto says slowly. “Are you teasing me, Akaashi?”

“No, I’m not teasing you,” Akaashi teases.

“Oh. Okay. I just mean that I’m happy it’s your birthday! I’m happy you’re here and that I get to celebrate it with you.” Bokuto grins. “And you’re happy to celebrate it with the great me, right?”

“That wouldn’t be untrue.”

“Are you teasing me, Akaashi?”

“No, I’m not teasing you,” Akaashi says earnestly. 

“You’re teasing me,” Bokuto says sulkily. But his face resumes his same peaceful cheer, reflected off the store windows. Akaashi has worn a wool winter coat, buttons fastened by thick looped thread. His ears feel the cold sensitively, but he concentrates on Bokuto’s back. The shadows slide to his lower back and then slip to his elbow when he passes a street corner. 

It is Akaashi’s birthday. He has cake waiting at home, a scattering of appreciative statements from his classmates, and a myriad of gifts from his classmates. He is walking home with a boy with an earnest smile. It is, he decides, a very good birthday. He will sleep peacefully that night, with his muscles still a gentle sore from practice. 

“This your house?” Bokuto asks, halting at the placard. 

“Yes.” 

“It’s big.”

“Thank you. I have not personally contributed to that attribute.”

“Sure,” Bokuto says easily. “See you tomorrow, Akaashi. Happy birthday.” 

“Good night,” Akaashi says. But Bokuto lingers, hands still stuffed in his pockets. He frowns, head twisting and turning. Akaashi patiently waits. If Bokuto apologizes for his lack of a gift, Akaashi won’t accept the apology. He has plenty of gifts. 

Bokuto steps forward, footwork a hesitation. His loafers crunch over the stray pebbles. He approaches Akaashi and raises his hands. He grabs Akaashi’s cheeks. Bokuto’s hands are icy cold. Akaashi stares and breathes, releasing drifting clouds. He can feel Bokuto’s calluses. Bokuto is swallowing, the lump in his throat jerking up and down. With Bokuto’s fingers crossing his ears, Akaashi can only hear the muffled thumps of his heart. Bokuto leans forward. Akaashi wets his lips. 

Bokuto kisses like how Akaashi imagines a ray of sunlight touches his skin. 

When Bokuto pulls back, Akaashi can barely feel his face. His cheeks are numb, less from the stinging cold and more from the radiant burn. He thinks his eyes must be wide, mouth parted. Bokuto still grips Akaashi’s cheeks tight underneath his palms. A flush has conquered Bokuto’s entire face. Bokuto bites down hard enough on his bottom lip that it pales underneath his teeth. 

Akaashi’s neighbor opens the door. The garden wall blocks the view, but he can hear the familiar slipper footsteps towards the garden. 

“I’ll—see you—tomorrow—” Bokuto releases him and steps backwards once. He then flees down the street, sprinting headfirst until he disappears past the corner. But Bokuto lives in the other direction, Akaashi thinks distantly. His neighbor pads through the garden, waters the plant, and walks back into her house. The crickets sing cheerfully. The streetlamp captures the trembling of the bushes.

Slowly, Akaashi covers his mouth with both hands. Almost like he’s preserving the kiss, he thinks miserably, although that’s not his intent. But he can still feel the warmth pressed against his mouth and maybe he does want to shield the kiss, a little, just a little. His face feels too hot. 

He waits ten minutes until the blush fades into something excusable in the cold. In his room, he drops his backpack against his chair and falls face-first into his bed. He smothers himself with his pillow until he manages to turn towards his desk and stare at the small volleyball, still hanging from his backpack.

* * *

  
During the long night of staring at his ceiling, he has come to the conclusion that he’ll act like everything is normal. He has considered apologizing, for some reason, or reassuring Bokuto, for some other reason. The possibilities bombard his ill-equipped psyche and warm mouth. It’s Bokuto’s fault that he felt obscene when he licked the cake cream from his lips. But it is best not to startle Bokuto, Akaashi convinces himself. He will greet Bokuto normally and coolly at practice. 

When he opens his front door, Bokuto is leaning against the gate. 

Akaashi closes the door. 

When he opens the door again, the earlier slam had caught Bokuto’s attention. The sharp gold eyes peer at him over the gate finials. 

“Good morning,” Akaashi says, normally and coolly.

“Wait,” Bokuto blurts out. 

“Okay.” But Akaashi steps out and locks the gate behind him. He spends a moment too long with his hands lingering over the cold metal, back facing Bokuto. His ears burn. 

“Before, days before, I ordered your gift, online, but it didn’t get here until this morning, so—happy late birthday. Happy day after your birthday. Happy birthday day.” Bokuto holds out the box with fumbling hands. “It’s a surprise. I mean, it’s a mug that says ‘trend setter,’ but it’s a surprise.”

“I’m surprised.” Akaashi accepts the box. 

“Good,” Bokuto says feebly.

“Then, yesterday,” Akaashi says, pretending not to notice Bokuto’s flinch. But he trails off, hugging the box to his chest. Bokuto works his mouth into a guilty smile. 

“Yesterday, I just—” Bokuto hesitates and cups his hands around his mouth, lowering his voice and whispering into Akaashi’s ear. “I just wanted to kiss you, Akaashi.”

The box has the heaviness of a mug. Nothing rolls around when Akaashi tilts the cardboard, so the inside must have been well-packaged for the journey. Trend setter. He likes that. He would use the mug. He doesn’t have to tip-toe, but he does tuck the box underneath his elbow to lean and kiss Bokuto, quickly, on the mouth.

“Thank you,” he says in a quiet rush. “For today. And yesterday.” 

Bokuto’s hair stands fully upright, tall and pointed at the ends. Akaashi runs his fingers over the packaging tape on his present. He tries and fails to keep his face impassive when Bokuto shouts and flings his arms around him.


End file.
